Say What You Will Page 23

  “I WISH YOU COULD BE MY BOYFRIEND,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. He wanted to say, Aren’t I already—well, more than that? His name wasn’t listed on Taylor’s birth certificate, but in every other way, he was her birth father.

  “Amy—” he said, and then she spoke again.

  “I WISH I COULD FEEL YOUR BODY ON TOP OF ME.” Her hand wasn’t moving, nor were her eyes open, giving him the strange sensation that her computer was speaking with a mind of its own. But of course that wasn’t possible.

  She must have typed this in earlier and waited for the right moment to say it. He got up and stood next her bed. He took her bad hand in his so her good one was free to type. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

  “I JUST SAID IT.”

  “I know, but—” He turned and looked at the door. “Now? You want me to do this now?”

  “YES.”

  “Your parents are coming back any minute. They just went to dinner.”

  “I ASKED THEM TO STAY AWAY. FOR AN HOUR.” Her eyes opened. “I WANTED TO BE ALONE WITH YOU.”

  His heart began to hammer against his chest. “Maybe I should sit down there.” He pointed to the bed beside her legs. “I’m feeling a little dizzy.”

  Her legs were easier to control lying down. She didn’t have the spasms she used to. He remembered the time he once held her foot to look at a scrape and she kicked him in the shoulder. He wasn’t worried about that now, though maybe that was a bad sign. Her body wasn’t strong enough for its old flinchy battles. He hadn’t seen her walk at all since the birth. He wondered if she still could.

  “Amy, you know I—” He leaned closer to whisper. “I feel like your boyfriend. I feel like more than that, actually.”

  He waited for a long time. Finally she typed, “GOOD.”

  “But here’s the important part, Amy. I feel like I want to always be here, with you. Helping. Like that should be my job or something. This is where I belong.” He couldn’t help it. He started to cry as he said this. “I’m not sure if I’ll be good at very many things, but I’m good at this. I’m good when I’m with you.”

  “YOU ARE.”

  “And you’re good with me.”

  “I AM.”

  As he spoke, he bent down, close to her face. He let his head drop, so his forehead rested on her shoulder. She typed while he caught his breath.

  “ALL THIS AND WE’VE NEVER KISSED.”

  He didn’t lift his head. “I know,” he said into her shoulder. “I’m a little scared. But I will if you want to. Do you want to?”

  “NOT AS MUCH AS I WANT TO FEEL YOU LYING ON TOP OF ME.”

  He lifted his head up and looked at her, surprised. “Really?”

  “YES. REALLY.”

  “We couldn’t—I mean, I couldn’t take off my clothes.”

  “NO. I WANT YOUR WEIGHT. I WANT TO FEEL YOU ON TOP OF ME. I DON’T KNOW WHY BUT I DO.” She started to cry.

  “It’s okay, Aim. I understand. I want that, too.” He bent down so he could take his shoes off quickly without making a sound.

  “I don’t want to mess up any of your tubes,” he said.

  “YOU WON’T.”

  “Or the nurse call button. Let’s don’t accidentally lie on top of that.”

  “WE WON’T.”

  They were smiling at each other now—their cheeks wet with tears. He took off his sweatshirt. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded and laughed. Her funny, barking laugh. He bent over, put his hands on either side of her shoulders, and looked her carefully in the eyes. “You’re really sure about this?”

  She nodded again, not laughing this time. Dead serious.

  It was strange then. The way his heart and brain raced at the same time as he lifted his legs onto the bed and gently lowered himself on top of her. He wondered if this was how it had been with Sanjay. If she was trying to erase one memory by creating another. He wondered what he would do if anything broke or collapsed beneath him—the bed, or Amy. He held himself up a little until she whispered in his ear. “I fi—”

  He understood and let himself relax down to his elbows.

  “You’re sure this is okay?” He didn’t hear her breathing.

  He held his own breath as if that might somehow help.

  Then she surprised him: he felt her good hand on his back grasp his shirt and pull down. He relaxed down completely and let himself bury his face in her neck. She smelled surprisingly good. Fresh like spearmint. “You smell great,” he whispered.

  “Jack wa d ma hai—” she whispered.

  He understood: Jackie washed my hair. Jackie was their favorite nurse. The one who’d given a baby away, too. The one who’d said the main thing they both wanted to hear: It’s hardest in the beginning. It gets easier.

  “Fo you.”

  She must have been planning this for a while, because hair washing was a production. Lying like this meant they couldn’t look at each other. It gave him the courage to say something he’d been too shy to say so far. “Thank you for sharing all this with me.” He lifted his head again so he could look at her. “Thank you for letting me be here.”

  Her eyes dropped away so it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. It was never easy with her limited range of facial expressions, but if he looked in her eyes, usually he could tell. Maybe he sounded too selfish. As if he was only thinking about how this affected him. He wasn’t. He wanted her to know that he wasn’t here to be nice or because he felt sorry for her. He wanted her to know it was much more than that. There weren’t words, really, to explain it.

  Her hand squeezed his shirt and pressed harder.

  “Do you want me to do something else?” What else could he do? She was attached to machines. She’d just had a baby.

  And then he thought of something. He lifted himself off of her and raised the sheet. She wore a hospital gown and a strange pair of underwear—white mesh with a pad, because even if you didn’t deliver a baby vaginally, you still bled a lot, he’d learned. “How about if I get under this with you?”

  She nodded. He was less tentative this time. He lay down beside her so he could touch her face and stroke her hair. He’d done all these things before, but never all at once like this. Lying side by side on the pillow, smiling like this, grinning foolishly, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t done this yet. The simplest thing of all—he leaned across the pillow and kissed her.

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THAT NIGHT MATTHEW WENT home and cooked dinner for a strange pairing: his mother and Mr. Heffernan. What’s up with that? Sarah texted him. Matchmaking much?

  It had been Amy’s idea. After they finished laughing about it, they agreed it wasn’t a terrible one. Mr. Heffernan was very sweet, but socially awkward in ways that would cross him off many women’s lists. But his mother didn’t keep lists. She hadn’t dated in years. Instead of dating, she watched TV and told Matthew she was fine.

  Maybe she was. The first time he’d seen her cry in months was three nights before Taylor’s birth, when no one knew what would happen and everyone was still so worried. “I’m so proud of you,” she said as she blew her nose. “I’m just so proud of you, that’s all.”

  The dinner went surprisingly well. As he told Amy the next day, “Maybe Mr. H talked a little too much about his fascination with photosynthesis, but hey, he’s a science teacher, right?”

  Amy smiled, though she didn’t respond.

  “Afterward they watched TV, which might sound a little depressing, but I don’t think it was. She talked the whole time, filling him in on the story lines of her favorite shows.” Matthew hadn’t stayed with them through that part. Instead he sat in the kitchen, surprised by how much his mother made Mr. Heffernan laugh.

  Now he looked down at Amy, whose head was turned away from him. “I
s everything all right?” Matthew asked.

  “NO TEMP,” she typed. “MEANS I CAN GO. TODAY OR TOMORROW.”

  He sat down on her bed. He knew this news was a mixed blessing and was happening sooner than they expected. Leaving the hospital meant leaving Taylor. It also meant Amy had to go somewhere. Mr. Heffernan’s house no longer made any sense. She would have to go home, and—she didn’t need to tell him—that wasn’t what she wanted.

  For a few days now, he’d been thinking of a plan, though he hadn’t readied any speech to go with it. “Listen, Aim,” he said. His heart began to hammer in his chest. “I’ve been thinking. Carlton, this guy I work with at the theater, has his own apartment. Granted, he’s twenty-six, which makes him a little pathetic to be working at a movie theater, but he’s a musician so whatever. But I keep thinking if he can do it with this movie-theater job, maybe we could, too. Maybe if I got a few extra shifts, we could afford an apartment. I know that sounds crazy, but maybe it’s not crazy. That’s what people do, right?” He was talking too quickly. Not giving her a chance to say anything. “If they don’t want to live with their parents for whatever reason, they move out. They live with their friends or their boyfriends. Right?”

  “NO,” she finally said, over him.

  He stopped talking. He waited for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he stood up. “Well, that’s nice, Aim. Just no. That’s it?”

  “DON’T BE STUPID.”

  Stupid? Is that what she just called him? He held up one hand and moved toward the door. “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

  “DON’T LEAVE.”

  He stopped at the door and spun around, furious now. “I make a nice offer. Not an easy offer, not one most people would expect, and you don’t even say thanks. You call me stupid.”

  “I’M GOING BACK TO SCHOOL.”

  What? For two weeks she’d done nothing but tell him horror stories from school. “No, Amy. Don’t do that. That’s a terrible idea—”

  “NOT STANFORD. UC BERKELEY. SARAH’S HELPING ME ARRANGE IT.”

  He sat down in a chair across the room. Another secret she hadn’t told him.

  “DID YOU KNOW UCB WAS THE FIRST ACCESSIBLE CAMPUS IN THE US? FIRST WITH A DISABILITY STUDIES PROGRAM. THE ADA MOVEMENT STARTED THERE. IT’S GOOD. IT’S WHERE I BELONG.”

  It took him a minute to remember what the ADA movement was—Americans with Disabilities Act. Amy spent last summer reading a book about the history of it. When he asked her about it once, she touched the cover and said, “MY PEOPLE,” which silenced him at the time. What he could say? In the span of five minutes she’d made him feel small and ridiculous. Hatching his little plan of impoverished domesticity. Thinking he would make them dinners while they waited for new pictures of Taylor in the mail. Assuming Amy would settle for the small life that sounded appealing to him. “Okay. Well, great. That sounds good.”

  “I KNOW YOU’RE MAD.”

  “I’m not mad. I’m happy for you.”

  “NO, YOU’RE NOT.”

  “You’re right, I’m not. Look at what you’re saying. It would be stupid to limit yourself to my pathetic prospects. I butter popcorn for a living. You’re better than that.”

  “I AM. SO ARE YOU.”

  Suddenly he realized what this really was. Enraging. It was beyond enraging. “You know what this feels like? I’m a great friend to get you through this little crisis. Where it was kind of about having Taylor and mostly about this face-off you needed to have with your mother. Because she didn’t really let you go and do college the way you wanted to, so you had to make this big statement, right? The baby is the statement, right?” His voice was shaking. He thought of Taylor’s little face in the bassinet and he hated what he was saying.

  “NO—”

  “Only you got sad and lonely and you needed me so you could feel better about yourself because all of this made you feel pretty terrible about yourself, right? You needed me so you could feel better about going back and trying again at a different school. I’m right, aren’t I? You’ve been planning this for a while, only you haven’t said anything.”

  “YES—BUT—”

  “And you didn’t tell me any of this because I’m so pathetic, I can’t deal with this idea of college. It’s all I can do to keep my shit together and show up for a four-o’clock shift selling candy to fat people.”

  “THAT’S NOT WHAT I THINK.”

  “Yes, it is. Just say it.” He was talking too loud now. Pacing around the end of her bed.

  “ALL RIGHT. IT IS. A LITTLE.”

  “Well, screw you, Amy!” he screamed. “Have you even wondered why I haven’t left here at four o’clock since you’ve been here? Are you curious why you haven’t seen my greasy polyester smock at all? I had to quit! I had to be here! I didn’t have a choice! So there you have it. I’m not even your sad friend with the loser job. I’m just your sad friend.”

  He didn’t walk straight out of the hospital from there. He couldn’t bring himself to. Instead he went to the bathroom beside the NICU. He washed his hands and his face and he suited up with everything he needed to put on: paper booties, face mask, hair cap, smock. Then he shuffled over to the bassinet and asked to hold Taylor.

  He hadn’t let himself hold her yet. He’d only stood outside the nursery and stared at others doing it. He was waiting for Amy’s fever to break so they could be together the first time they both held her. Never mind all that now. He showed the nurse the ID he’d gotten right after her birth. She nodded and said, “She’s right over here. Now’s a good time because she’s just about to try a little feeding. . . . ” So far Sue and Jim had done all the bottle feeding, but surprisingly, now they weren’t around. “Why don’t you settle into the rocking chair and I’ll bring her to you.”

  It only took a few minutes and suddenly Taylor was there, in his arms. She felt like a weightless bundle of blankets, hardly anything except for a tiny face peeking out of the swaddle and wide-open eyes, staring right at him. He didn’t panic or wait to hear the voice in his head. He just stared back and memorized the face he knew he might only see in photographs after this.

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  MATTHEW WAS RIGHT ABOUT a lot of things, except for this: Amy had thought about staying here with him. She had even thought about living together. They could do it, she knew. If they’d gotten through the prom debacle and Taylor’s birth, they might be able to live together someday. The problem was this: she didn’t want a marriage like her parents had, with her mother so fixated on one thing she hardly looked up and noticed the man across the table making it happen. Amy didn’t want to become her mother, who quit her law practice the day Amy was born. She didn’t want to give up everything for a love that became too all-consuming. “You are my job,” her mother used to say. “You are my life’s work.” It always made Amy want to say, You can’t turn a person into a job, Mom. People don’t pay enough. . . . Then Matthew said something similar, and it scared her. I feel like this is where I belong, and what I’m meant to be doing. Taking care of you.

  This was where Matthew was wrong. She had thought about all of this, and she knew the problems that lay ahead. Her body’s needs were boring; no one should have to take care of them exclusively. He could do so much more. So could she.

  Amy knew what she’d wanted to say to him. She’d thought about it this whole week. It was the most important conversation they would ever have, and when the time came to have it, she’d said virtually nothing. She’d let Matthew walk out. She’d gone backward to the nonverbal girl she’d once been, the same one who got to college and never figured out how to speak in public.

  She couldn’t remember having ever failed so badly at something. And then she thought of a letter Mr. Heffernan wrote to her mother, back in seventh grade.

  I worry what will happen if she doesn
’t learn what it feels like to not succeed. Has Amy ever failed at something? If not, she should learn how. It’s an important lesson.

  Maybe he was right. She had to learn this. So did Matthew. Maybe it would mean they’d never find their way back to each other. Never be as close as they had been this week. Maybe she’d never feel the glorious comfort of him lying on top of her. She’d loved that moment so much. If it never happened again, it was hard to imagine feeling the same way with anyone else.

  But she couldn’t stay here.

  The best she could say was: if all this was a test of her ability to articulate herself clearly when it mattered most, then she was following Mr. Heffernan’s suggestion five years ago. She was learning how to fail.

  For two weeks, Matthew didn’t leave the house. He couldn’t bear to. There were too many babies everywhere, which created a new fear—that if he looked at all of them, he’d forget Taylor’s face. It wasn’t a completely irrational fear. Newborn babies had more in common with one another than they did with the parents pushing them around in their elaborate car-seat strollers. They all had the same quizzical expressions on their face; they all had little hands curled into fists. It made no sense to feel the loss of one more than any other, so he felt it every time he passed any baby.

  “It makes me mad,” he told Beth during his next session with her. “I wish I didn’t feel it. I don’t even get it. I only spent a week with her. I only knew about her for two weeks.”

  “How do you think Amy’s dealing with all this?” Beth asked.

  He wouldn’t know. She’d written to him once, but he deleted the message without reading it. If he read it, he feared he would lose the resolve of his anger, which was important to hold on to. He wanted make his point: that Amy couldn’t use him whenever she needed a friend. This was the problem with the way their friendship had started. There was an imbalance from the beginning. He loved being needed in some of the surprising ways she needed someone. He liked taking care of her, and later, after she started giving him “assignments,” he liked being her project. He tried to explain it to his mother once. “Our weaknesses aligned pretty well. We filled each other’s gaps.”